


Your Lie in Inktober

by RainyAnimeAddict



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Read at your own cost, also if u know whats about to go down shhhhhhh, but at the same time, fictorber2020, inktober2020, new writer alert, nobody asked but i delivered, pleassseeee, your lie in april au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyAnimeAddict/pseuds/RainyAnimeAddict
Summary: Sherlock found his life perfectly suitable. He had his work, Mrs. Hudson, a morbidly obese brother, and His Mind Palace. Perfectly suitable but perfectly dull. However, when he meets a down in his luck med student on a gap year, he also meets perhaps the most intriguing mystery of all. The mystery of John Watson.Inspired by "Your Lie in April"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 3





	1. 1. Golden

Golden 

Adjective

1.  
colored or shining like gold .

October was considerably the least dull of the months. Sherlock certainly did not have something as idiotic as favorites but merely observes that October is the month where the most excitement occurs. Never mind spring or summer where creatures rise from the dormant or inchoate states, October is the month of death to many. The death of the trees and rise of the dying colorful leaves. The burrowing of the sleepy squirrels and the migrating of the cold birds. The cawing of the crows grow more ubiquitous and for some reason the murders become more inspiring for the time of falling. And while he will die before he admits it to anyone, his love of October derives more from the love of trick and treats but he rather jumps into the . Thames then admits his life of such a pedestrian holiday (god knows Mummy would). So when he opts to walk instead of calling the rushing cabbies, it's more for the benefit of his mind palace rather than juvenile enjoyment of the changing leaves. As he strolled into the St. Bart's Park, something stops him. A man rather close to his age. He wore hideous marmalade colored jumper that was too loose on his rather petite figure with bland beige jeans. Somehow this strange man had managed to put together the most cliché yet eye traumatizing autumn outfit he's ever seen. The mysterious man is simply standing on top of a bench trying to reach a decaying blossom on a tree. Tipping his feet, obviously determined, and obviously an idiot thinking that in some way he’ll be able to reach it. He sees his feet slipping. He should enjoy the idiot’s misfortune but something makes him say something. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock winced internally at the harsh snap. 

The man jumps surprised at the piercing yet pleasing baritone voice. He snapped his head to see who's the face behind the insult, revealing a tall man with striking cheekbones and the palest blue eyes. “Excuse me?” he asked just as harshly. 

“You obviously cannot reach it but instead of finding another leaf, out of the plethora that are in your reach you continue for that one even if it is evident that you will soon slip off the bench and the collision,” he continues but not without noticing the interminable sea the man has for eyes, “-that will no doubt cause some sort of fracture, yet you continue for a leaf that will dry and eventually become nothing of aesthetic value. Why?”

The man paused. Seemed to ponder Sherlock’s tangent for a good thirty seconds and the simply replied,  
“Because I want the damn flower.” he said in a matter-of-fact and thus continued to reach and hop for the damned leaf...flower...no...technically blossom, a magnolia cherry blossom. Said man then proceeded to trip and fall and no doubt break his back only to feel strong long arms catch his waist. The warmth of the touch in the chilly London weather was welcomed but soon abandoned as the tall man stood on the bench snatched the elusive blossom and handed it to him. 

“Thank you,” the strange man whispered softly. “ My name’s John Watson. I feel that after you’ve saved me a nasty fracture and given me a very handsome flower that we should at least be an a first name basis.” John finished with a hint of amusement in his tone. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. ” 

John raised his eyebrows. “What an exciting name,” he sighed, “I got stuck with boring old John.” Looking wistfully up to the grey cloudy skies of London, his eyes dulled for a moment, Sherlock hardly caught the strange look. Snapping back into a smile and turning to him, John continued playfully. “My family doesn't have a good track record for unique names anyways. You around these parts often Sherlock?” 

“Quite so, Molly has the freshest specimens in London.” Molly was also the only one who would let him into a morgue...plus she can be adequate company. 

“Oh! Are you a scientist of sorts?”

“More of consultant of sorts,” he corrected. ”When the police are out of their depth, they consult me, which is quite often. You wouldn’t believe how daft the yard really is. They are as good as blind.” 

“So a PI.” John simplified much to Sherlocks chagrin. 

“A consulting detective,’’ Sherlock huffed. “Mind you the only one in the world.” Tugging up his collar and turning his head is mock offense. 

Chuckling at the dramatic man’s antics, “Well prove it,” he challenged. 

“I don't do party tricks but you had a bloody nose earlier today and have an older brother, Harry who is clumsy and who you are currently evading." Sherlock rambled off. 

"Bloody brilliant," John replied breathlessly. "But how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I observed." And then proceeded to state all his observations in one quickly spoken tangent. It was glorifying seeing the astounded look that found its way into John's face even if he only just met the man. However he wouldn't get to enjoy it for as long as he liked as a heavy footed man made his way over-

"John Watson is that you?" a shrill Dr. Mike Stamford came rushing towards them. Seeing as his daily doughnut indulgences have become a more than regular occurrence, it seemed the distance was a bit of a hassle to cover. "Harry's been causing a riot looking for you I suggest you hurry back!" 

John grinned devilishly in response and turned back to Sherlock, "If you speak of the devil, it shall appear. Looks like we'll have to cut our meeting short Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Is there any way we could continue this meeting the future?" 

Sherlock never wished he carried his phone with him as much as right now. "May I borrow your phone?" 

"Oh sorry it see-"

"Don't be daft Mike," surely the man could pick up on social cues for heaven's sake. "John?" 

"No need to be rude Sherlock but here," lightly admonishing the piercing detective's dismissal as he handed him the phone. 

"I can only tolerate being the presence of such simple minds for so long."

"You know it's not all that bad being simple minded." 

"How dull."

Before John could retort a response, the nervous man interjected, "Ah...yes not to interrupt but when I said you're sister is starting a riot I mean she's going to make all the staff quit if you do not hurry along," Mike shifted his feet as he was met with one amused stare and a glare. 

"A sister? Damn!" There was always something. "What else did I miss?" 

"Alright, Alright I'm going." he said lightly pocketing his phone. Waving as he made his way into the hospital. "I guess you'll just have to wait until next time if you really wanna know." And starting to briskly walk away. 

Until next time, John.

-SH

Only you would text someone who's barely a metre away. Also why are you labeling you texts you silly man. Until next time then. 

-JW

Finding an odd look on Stamford's face he realized his face had twisted into a small grin. He quickly fixed it and ended the engagement of small talk with a "Good day Stamford." And made his way home.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

When he finally did arrive on 221Baker Street, he shook out his dark locs and down came tumbling one golden petal.


	2. Monstrous

Monstrous   
adjective  
having the ugly or frightening appearance of a monster

The first time John realized it was there he wasn't scared. Sure blue bruises riddled his arm and the fevers the left him indisposed for days on end; hell long days running climbing trees and running rambunctious becoming days incapacitated in bed did not even scare him. No, what scared him was more monstrous than that. It wasn’t the look on his Mother’s face when they told her. It wasn’t the sneer from a father who couldn't be bothered with another mouth to feed that already had a long dragged out expiration date. It wasn’t the muffled sobs of the sister who never took even the harshest of scolds seriously. Not the moment that they told him he could no longer enjoy the days of roughhousing during rugby or enjoy the unified stress of secondary schools with his peers. The moment he met the most monstrous of things, of emotions, was when they said 7 years. 

7 years to a 7 year old sounds like a long time. To be fair at the time, he was glad. Seven years was a long time and thus he would live a long life. He guesses it wasn't when they told him 7 years but perhaps it was when he realized how much more he could have gotten. As he goes through his seven years he begins to realize that he’ll never do most of what other people do. He’ll never grab a pint or hail a cab. He’ll probably never even take the tube. He’ll never see Big Ben or the Queen. Or go where the white sands gleam. He’ll never see mountains or see the northern lights. He’ll never even get a date or have a real rugby mate. He won't have a wedding or a graduation party. Nor would he ever become the doctors he sees on the big screen. It turns out that when you have 14 years to live with an immune crippling disease, you end up not being able to do a lot more than what you can do. So for years he waits to die. He watches as his dad slowly drinks himself into the grave and Harry to pick up the slack for his treatment payments. His mother is in an interminable state of distraught and doesn't realize he sees her tears through his barely opened eyes. And that is the most monstrous feeling he can remember, watching yourself and the world around you slowly decay until there’s nothing left. Not remembering who even was. No longer the boisterous young boy but a shell waiting for his death date through the days of probing and poking.   
By same outlandish miracle he gets another year, which turns into five, which turns into fifteen. And suddenly he’s not counting any more. And like most monsters, this one’s put to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, 
> 
> so I'm a new writer. I usually read but as y'all know the libraries have closed. Basically I have lost one of my most important pastimes leaving me completely reliant on fanfiction ;) However I feel it is a little unhealthy to consume this much at the rate so I'm just trying out creating for inktober to see how it goes. Yes, I know I'm a little behind but I hope to catch up or at least continue. Anyhow, Thank you for reading and leave a kudos or comment if you want or don't if you don't, do what floats your boat!


End file.
